To Save Miranda Priestly
by jenny jar
Summary: Reluctantly Andy accepts a mission that first takes her half around the world and then turns her life upside down. MirAndy
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Whatever you can recognize isn't mine

**Warning:** English is neither my first, nor my second language. Please, proceed at your own risk.

**TO SAVE MIRANDA PRIESTLY**

**1.**

* * *

"_Red wine with fish… Well, that should have told me something."_

James Bond, "From Russia with Love"

* * *

"Do you think you should've gone with her?" asks Doug as they both watch Lily move quite unsteadily toward the restrooms sign on the other side of the bar.

"Nah, she'll be fine," Andy says, because first of all she is not all that sure _she_ can get up just now. Besides, she knows Lily's had enough experience dealing with alcohol and its over consumption (what were those glorious college years for, anyway?) to be able to handle a short trip to the bathroom on her own.

Doug isn't convinced. "Um--" he says keeping an eye on Lily's progress.

"So," Andy glances at the TV set over the bar counter, "you wanted to talk to me?" The quarterback gets mowed over. Andy sighs and looks at Doug, who just then winces and makes a move to get up. Andy follows his gaze to see Lily swaying dangerously over someone's table. Shit, it looks like she might have to go with Lily after all.

"Andy, do you think--" Doug begins, but trails of as Lily after a fashion straightens up and continues on her way.

"She'll be fine," Andy repeats, but now she watches her girlfriend too.

They both are relieved when Lily disappears behind the bathroom door.

"So," Andy reaches for her drink, "the talk?"

Doug looks at her questioningly, "The talk?"

"Didn't you say you wanted to talk to me about something?" Andy considers her drink. It really isn't a good idea to get so drunk on Thursday night. Then again, she has a good reason for it, doesn't she?

"Um." Doug takes a big swig of his beer. "Um." He takes another one. His face is slightly pink now, and it looks like he is lost for words. God, why is he drunk? He hasn't lost an article to some stupid stuck-up, who happened to be a son of some other stuck-up, who happened to owe half of the Manhattan real estate. The right connections aren't everything! She can do investigating. She can do research. She can do-- Isn't she a fucking journalist for fuck's sake?

"Andy?"

Shit, she's being talking out loud. "Never mind, Doug. So." She takes a deep breath and brings the glass to her mouth. She really shouldn't get drunk on Thursday night. Andy swears and drinks.

"Andy, would you mind spending this weekend in Paris?"

She spits out her apple martini. "What?!" Apparently, Doug is more drunk than she thought. And from a beer? "Don't you have, uh, a girlfriend what's-her-name?"

"No, no, it's not what you think." Now, Doug's face turns red. He takes another drink before Andy has a chance to stop him. "It's not--"

"What is it, then?" Just in case, she puts her glass down. "Paris?"

"Andy," he grabs his paper napkin and starts rolling it on the table. "You know, there is a fashion week in Paris right now."

"No, but okay." Andy shrugs.

"Well, _Runway_ hosts a dinner at the end of the week."

Andy draws out a little her second "okay" .

"At that dinner they make all kinds of important announcements, um, and stuff--"

This time Andy draws out her "okay" much longer, as if hoping that by the time she gets to the "y" she will have at least inkling where Doug is going with it. She has to furrow her brows, when she is done with the "y," because she is still clueless.

"This year they are going to announce Miranda Priestly's engagement. I mean, it's a well-known fact, but they never made an official announcement." Doug pauses, obviously surprised to see Andy's blank stare. He is, in fact, so surprised that his face reacquires its normal color. "You know, she's being dating Sergio Carnelli of Bernstein and Carnelli for about a year now, don't you?" he asks.

"No. Why would I?" Andy looks at Doug in confustion. "And who is this Carnelli?"

He puts the beer bottle on the table. "Andy, I know you were not very happy with the way things turned out with Runway and Miranda, but you can't just discard the connections you've made…"

"What? Doug, what are you talking about? There were no connections." Andy snorts and hiccups in a rapid succession. "Take Miranda. The woman treated me like dirt, expected me to look like a model and work like a horse. Connections, my ass." She snorts again. Then hiccups.

Doug shakes his head. "She did give you a recommendation. A very good one."

"So?"

"Have you written her any thank-you notes? Any Happy Rosh Hashanah's?"

Andy hiccups.

"Look where you are right now. It is a third article they've taken away from you in the last six months!" Doug drops the torn remainders of his napkin. "You should build your network, you should keep in touch with people. Who cares how good of a writer you are if no one reads it?"

Andy hiccups and considers pouting, but decides against it. "Look, as fascinating as all of it is, could we please get back to the weekend in Paris?"

"Yes, of course." Doug moves the beer aside and steeples his fingers. "So, Miranda Priestly is going to announce her engagement."

"Can't we get past Miranda's engagement?" pleads Andy.

"Actually, no," says Doug. He looks around the bar and frowns. "Well…"

Andy turns to see Lily, in one piece, out of the bathroom, making her way back to their table.

"All right, here it is." Doug leans over the table and begins to speak very fast, darting glances in Lily's direction. "She will also mention that her annual December vacation this year is going to be her honeymoon. There will be a very small wedding, since it is her third and his second, and the newlyweds will leave for a month to go some place nice and warm. Irv Ravitz, you do remember who he is?" Doug accepts Andy's hiccup and nod as a positive answer. "Ravitz will say that the Elias-Clark Board wants to give Miranda a gift for her upcoming marriage. And the gift is a worry-free honeymoon. In other words, they are bringing someone to take over the magazine, while Miranda is out, so that she won't be bothered with work stuff while enjoying her…"

"Wait a moment," Andy hiccups and tries to comprehend. "There is Nigel, and what's-her-name, and…you know, other people. Why would they bring someone in?"

"Nigel has gone to Hugo Boss a long time ago--" Doug begins, but interrupts himself, "but it's not the point."

"It's not?" Andy hiccups and looks at Doug. "It's not?" She repeats rather stupidly, before something clicks. "Oh--"

"Yes."

"No shit." Andy forgets to hiccup and gulps a mouthful of her martini. "Wow. Irv really wants her out." She looks at Doug. "But how do you know all this?"

Doug sighs, opens his mouth, and closes again. He waves at slowly approaching Lily and says quickly, "I have a buddy in research. He covers publishing. He hears things."

"Okay," Andy nods and waves at Lily too. "But what does this all have to do with a weekend in Paris?"

Doug looks at her, biting his lip. "You can warn her."

Andy hiccups again, her eyes wide. "Let me get this straight. You want me to spend my hard-earned money to fly over the pond to speak to a woman of whom I hold no warm memories, who hates my guts, who is impossible to corner alone, and who definitely won't talk to me on the phone. I'll need to warn her about something, of which I have no proof, and, frankly, if it's true, she might well deserve, and… What else do you expect me to do while I am at it? Take Bastille?"

"I'll pay for the tickets," Doug whispers, as Lily flops down next to Andy.

"That was exhausting," she says, reaching for her drink. "And their bathroom is filthy." She looks at her companions, who seem to freeze in a staring contest. "Did I miss anything important?" Lily finally asks.

Andy begins laughing. She laughs for some time, before the hiccup interrupts her merriment. Then she takes a sip of her drink, puts the glass down, and says, "Doug, out of all the people I know, I've never thought I'd have to say it to you, but here it is – you are insane."


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

_

* * *

_

"Oh, the things I do for England."

James Bond, "You Only Live Twice"

* * *

Andy wakes up in the middle of the night, heart pounding, the t-shirt stuck to her sweating back. What a nightmare! She dreamt that she agreed to go with Doug to Paris to warn Miranda Priestly about some evil plot to sack her.

Really--

Andy squints at the clock. Shit, it's only four in the morning. She flops back on the pillow, but jumps up a second later. Oh, god, she didn't, did she?

Breathing hard, she stares unseeing at the opposite wall for some time, as the events of last night emerge in bits and pieces from the haze of her hung-over mind. God, she most definitely did. Andy groans and hugs the pillow. How many martinis did she actually have? God.

She doesn't get any sleep after that and waits only until about six o'clock to call Doug.

"I am not going," Andy says firmly.

On the other end of the line there are some yawning, and some grunting, and some throat clearing. Then, Doug says, "Good morning to you too."

Andy takes it as a question and rants for the next fifteen minutes about stupid ideas, and drunken friends, and promises that shouldn't have been made and, hence, shouldn't be kept.

Doug listens without interrupting until Andy pauses. Then he inquires, "Do you have anything important to do this weekend?" That deflates Andy slightly, because except for some long, satisfying sulking on the account of the lost article, she really has nothing planned.

Still, she fights for another ten minutes, before a question comes to her mind. "Why do you care, if Miranda gets sacked?"

Doug grunts, hums, and finally offers, "Let's just say I knew about her way before you started working at Runway."

Andy doesn't really understand what it has to do with anything, but she is tired, thirsty, and the headache, she has ignored for the last two hours, suddenly too overwhelming to continue the argument. That is why she barks, "Fine," and hangs up.

She calls Doug three more times, though, just to let him know what exactly she thinks about the trip, about the fashion industry in general and Miranda in particular, about Doug and his nosy buddies, as well as about her own inability to keep her stupidity in check. She talks to herself about all of it a little too. In a course of the day, she apparently says everything she needs to say on the subject, so that when she meets Doug in the airport, she offers only a grim, "Someone better be very thankful," and thrusts a notebook into his hands.

Doug grins, leafs through the notebook, and glances at her, grinning considerably wider. "How?"

Andy is pleased with his reaction, but she is not about to tell him how much time she spent on the phone, piecing together Miranda's schedule for the next two days. Besides, she still feels that she is going against her will (let alone against her better judgment), so she settles for a scoff, "You are paying my phone bills this months, you know that, don't you?"

Once on the plane, and the plane is in the air, with some regret Andy thinks about the pint of Ben and Jerry's in her fridge, and the bottle of cheap wine she was going to buy for the weekend, and the Sunday night "Masterpiece Theater" on Thirteen. The image of a drunken woman, singing off-key "All by myself…," springs promptly to her mind. And she, Andy, doesn't even have an ex-boyfriend to be upset about! Shit. Andy carefully shakes her head (Tylenol doesn't really work all that well on her hang-over) and decides that may be, just may be, it isn't a bad idea to get out of New York for the weekend, even if the reason for this get-away is simply crazy.

Andy's decision gets thoroughly tested for the next seven hours, as the man on her right snores loudly on her shoulder, no matter how many times she tries to dislodge him. Doug, who is sitting three rows behind her and, a seasoned traveler that he is, has fallen asleep while he buckled his seat belt, is not available to listen to Andy's complains. So she watches two pointless movies, drifting in and out of restless slumber, and is ready to bite Doug, who, as they are leaving the plane, says, "Wasn't that bad, was it?"

Andy grumbles "hello" to Doug's college friend, Jake, who has come to meet them. The two men spend some time hitting each other on the shoulders and exclaiming "how long it's been." Apparently, it has been long enough, because by the time they are done with the exclamations and the hitting, and start moving toward the terminal exit, Andy is ready to bite them both.

Ashley, Jake's girlfriend, is waiting for them at the curb. A bubbling twenty-year-old exchange student from Texas, she instantly reminds Andy of all the cheerleaders she has known and disliked in high school. Watching her bustling around, Andy is almost positive that somewhere in the purse Ashley keeps a spare pair of pom pons, which she is ready to produce at a moment's notice. The girl is simply ecstatic about meeting them, and doesn't stop flashing her brightest smiles at Andy and Doug all the while the introductions are made, the luggage is put in the trunk, and everyone gets in the car. For Andy, after two almost sleepless nights, the girl is too hard on the eyes. Five minutes into their acquaintance, and Andy is ready to bite her too.

"This is great!" Ashley exclaims, as she pulls the car into the traffic.

Andy absolutely fails to see the greatness in any of it. She looks pointedly at Doug, who shares, or rather takes most of the back seat from her, and opens her mouth to say something, she will probably regret later.

"Oh, this is totally great!" the girl exclaims again, interrupting her, "Right, Andy?"

God, it is fucking seven in the fucking morning! On Saturday! What the fuck is great about it?! This is what Andy wants to say as she turns to look forward. Instead, she settles for a "yeah" and ignores another Ashley's bright smile that the girl flashes in a rear-view mirror.

"Yeah!" Ashley echoes her cheerfully, and Andy really wants to bite her now.

Meanwhile, Doug produces the notebook with Miranda's schedule. For the next half an hour they all are trying to figure out what will be the best way to approach Miranda. Actually, Andy's part is restricted to looking at the other three with bleary eyes, while making a half-hearted attempt to listen to their ideas. Which are either ridiculous, or unfeasible. Of which she informs her co-conspirators with a fair degree of glee.

Eventually the number of ideas dwindles down considerably, and the conversation moves to a possibility of Runway without Miranda ("oh, no!"), or Miranda without Runway ("oh, poor woman!"), and, finally, to Miranda and her great influence on the fashion industry ("Isn't she incredible! Do you remember what she wrote in the last editorial?")

Andy can take this nonsense only for so long. Interrupting someone (it is hard to tell who, since all three of them, Ashley, Dough, and Jake, are so wound up, they talk almost simultaneously), she inquires, "What is it? A Miranda fucking Priestly fan club?"

There is a long silence in the car, and three pairs of eyes are staring at Andy in disbelieve. Andy stares right back, thinking that, frankly, she hasn't say anything, deserving this kind of reaction, and besides, shouldn't Ashley, seeing as she is driving, keep her eyes on the road?

At last Doug mumbles, "Well, you know, she is a legend--"

Andy stares at him now.

"Jake and I did a course paper on fashion magazines in Marketing, and--"

"You?" Andy furrows her brows, looking between Jake and Doug.

"Well, at first we thought, you know, models and stuff," Doug shrugs, "but then we learned about Ms. Priestly."

Andy carefully shakes her head. "I am not in Elias-Clarke," she tells herself firmly. "I am not." Then she catches Ashley's eye in the rear-view mirror. "And you?"

The girl smiles sheepishly. "Oh, I love fashion. And--and Jake. And you were so totally lucky to work for Ms. Priestly!"

Andy raises a hand to stop her, because she knows, she can feel it that Ashley is about to say "a million girls--," and then she'd really have to bite her.

The girl's apartment is nothing Andy has expected. Then again, if a student can keep a car in Paris, why can't they have a huge apartment?

Andy shrugs. She doesn't want to think about it. In fact, she doesn't want to think about anything at. When one is far away from home, on a ridiculous mission, surrounded by, lets face it, some pretty weird people, thinking is not the best way to pass the time and should be used sparingly.

Thankfully, at the moment there is no need for Andy to think at all. Since Miranda should be attending various showings for the next several hours and is completely inaccessible, Andy uses the opportunity to catch up on her sleep. She doesn't bother to explain her decision to the other three. She just looks with a mixture of pity and contempt at Jake and Doug, who, armed with pencils, already bend their heads over the table, where they have spread the map of Paris, the notebook with Miranda's schedule, brochures from different designers' shows, and some such crap, carefully shakes her head, and follows Ashley to the spare bedroom.

"My parents stay here, when they come to visit," the girl informs Andy, as she supplies sheets and a blanket. "And my girlfriends," she adds with a giggle. "When Alana and Kayla were here a month ago--," Ashley is probably about to go into some details of her friends' last visit, when she catches Andy's murderous glare. She chokes on the end of the sentence and giggles nervously, "Well, you know--"

"Totally," Andy sneers, and the girl retreats with a respectable speed.

Andy is half asleep the moment she crawls under the covers. And yet she hears Ashley's whisper in the other room, "You said she was nice."

Andy rolls her eyes behind the closed eyelids. "Wait till you meet your idol. If you, like, totally lucky."

...

...

...

A/N Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	3. Chapter 3

**3.**

_**

* * *

**_

**Pat Fearing:** W_hat do you do?  
**James **__**Bond:**__ I travel, a sort of licensed troubleshooter._

"Thunderball"

* * *

If Andy learned anything working at Runway, it is to always look impeccable. Not that she does sometimes. Often. All right, most of the time. But she knows. So, when Doug drags her out of the bed with a solemn expression on his face and urgent whisper, "It's time," she sighs, but makes an extra effort to put herself "together."

Andy ignores Doug's impatient pacing in the hallway, intermittent with light scratching at her closed door, until she is satisfied with the way she looks. Since she is out of practice, it takes long. And, probably, much longer than Doug has expected, because by the time she is ready, he is visibly upset.

"We are going to be late," he practically pushes her out of the apartment. "Gosh, Andy, we are going to be so late."

"Just don't cry," Andy wants to say, but limits herself to the head shaking.

As they are leaving, she catches her reflection in the mirror besides the front door. Does she look "Miranda-Priestly-ready"? It will do, she decides. Except for--.

"Andy, please," Doug interrupts. Shit, he isn't going to cry, is he? Andy abandons the mirror, thinking, "God, Miranda, and he hasn't even met you yet."

Ashley and Jake, who apparently have been on a stake-out, greet them at a little café. Their table is at the window with a perfect view of the main entrance to La Tremoille, Miranda Priestly's hotel for the duration of the Fashion Week.

Andy looks at the lavish entrance, turns away, but quickly looks back. It is _the_ hotel. Same one she spent five days in two years ago. The five days, which turned to be the last days of her tenure at _Runway. _The five days that ended the said tenure in an extremely bad way.

Andy swallows hard as it hits her with a force of speeding train – she is in Paris, and she will need to talk to Miranda. Fuck! She is the world's biggest idiot! What the fuck was she thinking, agreeing to this?! Andy sags into a chair. What the fuck is she going to do?!

"Oh, you look amazing," oblivious to Andy's unpleasant discovery, Ashley smiles at her and nudges Jake, "doesn't she?"

Andy chokes out her thanks.

"And your scarf is totally awesome!"

Andy glances down at the scarf and instantly thinks that yellow is a mistake. Unfortunately, the rest of her scarf collection is back in New York. Where, frankly, she should be as well.

Andy begins to sweat as she agonizes over her options – ditch the garment altogether or keep it, seeing as the scarves are "must haves" of the season. It takes a couple of moments before she manages to stop her inward debate. Andy wipes her sweaty palms against her thighs and tells herself firmly that she will not be obsessing over her appearance. She will absolutely not.

So she nods tersely, when Jake gives her an appreciative once over with a smile and Doug, who seems to calm down a bit, once he realizes that they have made it on time, pats her on the shoulder.

"I forgot you can look this good," Doug says, pulling a chair across the table from her.

That Andy really wants to reply to. With something that will most likely begin with "fuck you." But as soon as she opens her mouth, a waiter appears. He throws a couple of menus on the table, gives them all a look full of thinly veiled disdain, and walks away, muttering something in French.

Frowning, Ashley glances at Andy. So does Jake.

"What?" Andy looks from one to the other.

"Um," Ashley attempts to smile. "He said something about your lipstick." She thinks for a moment. "Wrong color?"

Really? Andy whips out a small mirror. Shit. The waiter is right. Well, Doug _was_ rushing her out the door. But what now? Take it off? Andy rummages through her purse – that is the only shade she's got. A quick look at Ashley confirms that yes, that _is_ the only shade she's got. Andy wipes her sweaty palms once more. Shit, first, the scarf, now the lipstick. She can't approach Miranda looking like this. She simply can't.

Just when Andy is about to panic, Ashley points at the hotel entrance, whispering, "Is it? Is it her car?"

A black limousine pulls to the curb next to the hotel. A driver jumps out of the car and sprints around it to open a passenger door.

Andy can't really see the person that exits the car, only the back of their head. A white, short-haired woman's head. But if there are any doubts as to the identity of the woman, they disappear momentarily. An overwhelming urge to pat her hair and straighten her clothes tells Andy in no uncertain terms that she is looking at no other but Miranda Priestly. Following the woman is a very tall girl, with her head bend low (what is she, taking notes there?), and a man (Nigel? Is he that bold?).

Andy watches her former boss and the entourage cross the sidewalk quickly and disappear into the hotel. Then, she tries to take a deep breath. It doesn't go well. The reason is that her hands are gripping the end of the scarf tightly, either pulling it off, or--. Whatever. Andy frowns, makes herself let go of the scarf, and gasps in relief.

Meanwhile, Miranda's driver returns to his seat in a much more dignified manner than he left it, and the car speeds away, leaving once more an unobstructed view of the hotel entrance. Andy, happy to be breathing freely again, for a moment forgets about her anxiety. Calmly, she looks at the door, behind which Miranda et al have just disappeared, and it occurs to her – she really has nothing to worry about. Nothing.

Andy almost smiles and turns her attention to her companions, who, now having seeing Miranda, appear to get even more excited about their mission.

"Did you see--."

"The car--."

"She always wears her hair--."

"—right on schedule!"

"And the assistants--."

Andy listens to the animated chatter, considering how to break it gently to them that that there is really no way she, let alone any of them, will be able to come within a speaking distance to Miranda Priestly. And even if someone, by an extraordinary miracle, achieves that, there is definitely no way Miranda will listen to anything they have to say.

Andy still hasn't decided what to do, when Doug turns to her and asks, "So, what do you think?"

Jake and Ashley look at her too, with expectant smiles on their faces. "What do you think, Andy? What's next?"

For a moment Andy wavers – whether to laugh or cry. It's an effort, but she does neither. Nor does she roll her eyes. Instead, she furs her brows, bites her lips, and utters, "Um--." That's all she can manage before looking away.

Thankfully, her gaze stumbles over their waiter, and Andy gestures him to come over. Without looking at the menu, she orders a sandwich and glances at her companions, "You?"

The three scramble for the menus, but end up ordering the same sandwich as Andy. The waiter gives them all a look, this time not even trying to hide his disdain, and retreats, mumbling something in French. Even Andy can recognize several words – "hamburgers," "McDonald's." Do you have any, she wants to ask, because some comfort food wouldn't go amiss, considering. But then she looks at Doug, Jake, and Ashley, who watch her intently. Apparently, they are still waiting for her directive as to how to save Miranda Priestly.

Andy sighs. God, it looks like she has no time to snip with waiters - she has an operation to run.

…

…

…

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	4. Chapter 4

**4.**

_**

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**_

**James Bond:** _Do you expect me to talk?  
**Goldfinger:** __No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die!_

"Godlfinger"

* * *

Andy rarely enjoys her meals any less than she does it in a small café, in the middle of Paris, across the street from La Tremoille. As she chews on a piece of baguette, she studies Miranda's schedule, paying close attention to every item on it for the first time since this whole nonsense has began. However, no matter how carefully she looks, she can't see anything there, which even remotely sounds like "five minutes available for listening to the former assistant on the subject of evil plots." Instead, there are show attendances, a breakfast with _Runway France_ staff, a private cocktail party…

Shit. How is she supposed to do it? It was practically impossible to get Miranda's attention while Andy was still her assistant. And now?! Andy snorts mirthlessly. She can just imagine herself being hauled away by a couple of security guards to the sounds of Miranda's soft but deadly murmur, "If I am to be accosted in Paris, a capital of the fashion world, mind you, could it be by someone skinnier and with more fashion sense than--," mouth twists in disgust, "this? Am I reaching for the stars here?"

Andy's palms are damp again, and she wipes them on the ends of her yellow scarf. God, she hates Miranda Priestly.

And on top of it all, the damn woman may very well know the danger her position at the magazine is in at the moment. And she may very well have already taken necessary measures to protect the said position.

Andy frowns and for a moment allows herself to think about a pint of Ben and Jerry. (Do they have Ben and Jerry's in France?) And screw the size four ass, she's been maintaining since leaving _Runway_. It's precariously close to expending back into six as it is, considering the way her career has been going lately.

Andy inhales and exhales. Isn't it why she is here? Her career and all? So. So--

She stares at the schedule some more. It's not that she discount the necessity of networking per se, it's just she has very serious doubts that Miranda Priestly could ever be a part of her, Andy's, network. Saving act or not. Andy rubs her forehead – the woman, probably, despise her so much she'd personally hand the _Runway_ to Jacqueline Follet before having lunch with Andy. Well, may be not so much. Still--

Andy glances at her team, who, oblivious to her conundrum, chats happily, consuming their lunches. Thankfully, they has stopped staring at her in expectation that she is about to send them into a battle or, at the very least, reveal something earth shattering about their idol. So. Andy sighs and swallows the last piece of her sandwich. Then she says, "Okay, let's do it," and three pair of eyes are on her at once. God, it's going to be a very long weekend.

"Okay," she repeats, "here's what we'll do. You," she looks between Ashley and Jake, "go to the lobby," she nods toward La Tremoille, "and see if there is a lounging area, or a bar, or something, where we can stay without drawing attention." Because, really, if one wants to speak to a person, staring at them from across the street isn't all that conducive to the task at hand.

"Then," Andy continues, "get on the phone and call anyone you can think of, who works or has any access to any of these venues," she slides her finger along Miranda's the schedule, "or can score an invitation." She looks thoughtfully at Ashley, who grins widely in return, nods several times, and hops of the chair. Under the weight of her enormous Mark Jacobs bag, hanging on the armrest, the chair falls sideways, and the content of the bag pours out. The girl, the grin never leaving her face, hurriedly stuffs everything back in. There is a lot of junk there, but no pom-pons. Andy shrugs and, as she watches Ashley walk right into an unoccupied table on the way out, thinks that may be the girl didn't make that squad after all. Well, what are you going to do - sometimes enthusiasm is simply not enough. Meanwhile, Ashley already is pulling Jake across the street, disregarding honking and brake screeching, and Andy feels that it's going to be a very, very long weekend.

Suppressing the urge to sigh, she turns to Doug. "You have to tell me everything, and I mean, every little detail, you know about the whole Miranda business."

Without chewing Doug swallows in one gulp the remainder of his food, which appears more than his esophagus can safely handle. The tears fill his eyes, and Andy winces in sympathy. But Doug recovers quickly and proceeds with the report.

It is actually very clever, Andy has to admit, the way Irv and Co. are going about it.

Alexandra Rizzo, the fashion director for _Runway Italia_, will come to New York to take over the Runway while Miranda enjoys her worry-free honeymoon. Of course, all the attention is going to be on Signora Rizzo, and, if there are any suspicions about Miranda being ousted, everyone will assume that it is the Italian, who will get the Editor-in-Chief's job. But in fact, she is going back to Rome as soon as Miranda returns. There is a different person Ms. Priestly should worry about, namely Anna Wintour, the rising star of the Australian fashion publishing world, who's been at the head of Australian Glamour magazine for the last three years.

"Australian?" Andy looks at Doug. "How? And if it is such a big secret, how come you know about it?"

Quite by accident, it appears, because no one knows about Ms. Wintour coming to New York. Well, almost no one.

"My buddy, the one from research," Doug explains, "had lunch with his friends, and they were all complaining about long hours and bosses' outrageous requests."

That, Andy thinks bitterly, she can write volumes about, and nobody will be able to say she has no access to the right information.

"And they all have stuff to tell."

Andy fights a sneer – have any of those wooses worked for Miranda Priestly?

"So, one of the guys tells them about his girlfriend, who works for a very exclusive real estate agency that serves only corporate accounts. And this girlfriend of his has been assigned to find a house for someone from Australia. At first, she doesn't think it's going to be a problem – she's worked with plenty of high-end long-distance anonymous buyers. However, later it turns out this client, on top of the right neighborhood, a certain number of bedrooms, separate servants' quarters, and so on and so forth, expects that "the house speaks to them." And they are very particular about it."

"What?" Andy puts her cup down and looks at Doug.

"Yes." Doug shrugs. "That's actually how my buddy got a wind of the whole thing."

Andy continues to look at him, flummoxed.

"See, this Ms. Wintour apparently wants other things to speak to her too – magazine covers, gowns--. It's been kind of her request of choice, and she is adamant about getting it satisfied. People in the business know. So does my buddy. He puts two and two together and starts digging. And, here we are."

Andy still thinks about the poor real estate girl, while Doug and she leave the café and head to La Tremoille. It's really hard to say what's worse – "find a house that 'speaks to me'" or "get me a copy of an unpublished Harry Potter". It is a tough call.

Half of the hotel's enormous lobby is a lounging area, filled with coffee tables and elegant armchairs. Ashley and Jake have found a rather good spot to station, with a view of the entrance and the elevators. There is enough people, sitting around, reading newspapers or talking, for Andy and her troops to remain inconspicuous. That is what Andy thinks until Ashley notices Doug and she come in, and jumps up from her seat, grinning and waving her both hands wildly.

"Here! Over here!" she hisses in kind of loud, dramatic whisper. A number of people turn to look at the girl, then at Andy and Doug, and Andy has to clamp her mouth shut, before a string of choice words makes it out.

Then, she wants to flee.

But she doesn't. She breathes deeply in and out her nose, and stomps to Ashley, whose grin is withering, the closer Andy is getting.

"Hi," the girl utters carefully, when Andy reaches the table. "Um--" she furrows her brows, as if she's forgotten what she is going to say, and, finally, thankfully, sits down.

Andy sits down too and takes a long, shattering breath – it's going to be a very, very, very long weekend.

For the next half an hour, while Doug, a BlackBerry in hand, catches up on his messages (talking about long working hours), and Jake and Ashley quietly (thanks, God) make phone calls or discuss people, who might be of help, Andy studies the surroundings and mulls over her options.

Can she intercept Miranda here, in the lobby? Could she go up to the woman's suite? Should she try and get her on the hotel phone or leave a message for her with the concierge? And what exactly is she going to say?

Andy hasn't made a decision yet, when, according to the schedule, it is time for Miranda to go to the Valentino show. As if on cue, Miranda storms out of the elevator followed by a skinny, tall girl with harassed, exhausted look on her face. The pair rips through the lobby, people scatter before them. Andy, her hands gripping the scarf once again, pauses in almost admiration – she's completely forgotten what a force of nature Miranda Priestly is. But then a more sobering thought comes to her mind – unless she plans to make a spectacle of herself, she won't be able to approach the woman on the move like this. Impossible.

Unfortunately, Ashley thinks differently. "Look!" she grabs Jake's shoulder, "look, it's her!" And then, to Andy's complete horror, she shouts, "Miranda! Miranda! Miranda Priestly!"

The woman halts, the girl behind her barely avoids the collision, and swiftly turns. Her gaze skids around the room until it stops on Andy. Then, her eyes narrow.

God help me, Andy thinks, breaking in sweat. She is on her feet before she really has a chance to consider her actions. Probably, she should start with "I am sorry" and take it from there. But she only has time to make several steps toward the woman (for some reason, Andy is sure that screaming 'sorry' across the lobby won't endear her to her former boss), when Miranda's grimaces, turns, and continues on her way out.

Surprised (if not somewhat relieved) Andy looks around and freezes. Standing next to her is her whole team - Ashley, wide grin on her face, both hands in the air, Jake and Doug, both smiling and waving. Oh, god--.

Suppressing a moan, Andy turns to see Miranda and her assistant, already on the sidewalk, getting into a car. Then, she moans. Just fucking great.

And yet, she knows it is going to get even greater as she notices a hotel clerk approaching her team. His grimace may rival Miranda's.

Well, it's going to be a very, very--, oh forget it, this fucking weekend will never end.

…

…

…

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.

The TDWP site. Yes, I know about it. But since I don't have an LJ account, I have no way of posting there.


	5. Chapter 5

**5.**

_

* * *

_

/Bond is dragged from a river onto a tour boat/

_**Woman on Tour Boat**: Are you with our group?  
**James Bond:** No, ma'am, I'm with the economy tour!_

"Octopussy"

* * *

The October days in Paris are fairly mild and pleasant. That is, of course, when one is dressed for the weather and not to satisfy her former boss' sensibilities.

After they are thrown out of La Tremoille, it doesn't take long for Andy to realize that her fancy jacket does nothing for the warmth and her stilettos are designed primarily for sitting down, one leg over the other, a cocktail in hand, and definitely not for walking.

On the bright side, it seems that their expulsion has put a damper on Ashley's spirits. Andy just wonders how long the quiet can last.

Jake and Doug also look chastised – both of them keep glancing at Andy, and she does hope those glances are apologetic. Because, really, what were you thinking?!

Soon, Andy decides that her team (and her feet) has been punished enough and lets Jake pick another café.

The waiter here seems to be a brother, or some kind of relative, of the one, who served them earlier. At least, the disdainful expression on his face looks familiar. But the coffee is good. And hot.

They all sit quietly for a couple of minutes, until Andy asks, "So, did you find anybody?"

Ashley looks confused, but Jake answers right away, "I think I might get us, um," he clears his throat, "you in for the luncheon tomorrow. At least for the pre-luncheon reception."

"Can we all go?" asks Ashley brightly.

There is a pause. Then, Jake pats his girlfriend's hand lightly and says, "We'll talk about it later, honey. Okay?"

Ashley smiles at him. "Totally. I can wear my Chanel suite. I think it's a good choice, don't you?" Before Jake answers, she sparks up with an idea, "Or may be I should go in something Juicy? It is Juicy Couture, see? So fitting for fashion people's lunch, right?"

Andy starts counting to ten. Thankfully, on three Ashley's phone rings, and she flips it open with a smug expression on her face. Andy still finishes her count and does two more. Just to make sure. Apparently it works, because when Doug glances cautiously at Andy, he decides that the crisis has passed and takes out his BlackBerry.

While Ashley chirps in French on her cell and Doug frowns over his messages, Jake talks about tomorrow lunch. Andy doesn't pay much attention beyond "you get in with the catering people and then you are on your own." Finally, managing to recover from the Juicy Couture remark, she sips her coffee and, for a moment, lets herself think about the state of her sanity, agreeing to this mission. Then, with a sigh, she turns her thoughts to the situation at hand.

If Andy has had troubles deciding how to approach her former boss before, now, in a view of the unfortunate encounter, she is at a complete loss. She has always suspected that Miranda Priestly would have no interest in "catching up" with her. But there has been a faint hope that the woman would at least endure a "Hello, how are you" from her former second assistant. Well, that has been some wishful thinking. Andy shivers recalling Miranda's stare from across the hotel lobby. And learning what kind of company Andy keeps surely has put the woman on a higher alert.

Shit. Total and complete shit. And she worried about a stupid scarf--. Andy rubs her forehead – the next time she tries to come near Miranda, the woman will call security. Or police.

Wonder if they feed ice cream to French prisoners.

Jake stops talking at last, and Andy can focus on the memory of her former boss, in all her magnificence, ripping through the hotel lobby. To get within a speaking distance of her, there has to be an element of surprise involved, she realizes. But no matter how much Andy furs her brows, chews on her lip, or sighs, she can't see a way to do it, short of tackling the woman to the ground. And that will be a rather embarrassing and legally complicated situation.

So, what can they do with Miranda? Jump from around the corner and cry "boo!!"? Lasso her? Mindlessly, Andy peeps at Ashley's big bag, then at the girl. Can she do it? The girl in question, mid-sentence, flashes her a bright smile, and Andy almost chocks on her coffee. Fuck.

A minute later Ashley gets off the phone, babbling with excitement. "We are going to the party!! We are going to the party!!"

Frowning, Andy waits for explanation, which is at least two minutes too late to come.

"One of the IMG offices hired a bunch of new models for the Fashion Week," Ashley begins as if she is about to tell them that they all have won Publishing Warehouse prize. "No one knows them very well, they are from all over, like, you know, Russia, and Moscow, and China. All those countries. And they are all invited to the party tonight." Ashley points at Miranda's schedule.

"So?" Andy asks, through the clenched teeth.

Ashley shrugs. "Not many of them will actually go, because there are like tons of other parties tonight all over the town. Here," she nods at the schedule, "there is no dancing. It's mostly for those, you know, like investors? I am sure there going to be some fun people too, but--"

"Ashley," Andy practically growls. The previous desire to bite the girl quickly transforms into the need to strangle her.

"Okay, okay. So, all we need to do is to dress like models and tell the security we work for the IMG, our ID's are not ready yet, because we just came from, you know, somewhere far, like, Poland or something. Poland. Is that a country?"

As Ashley stops to think, Andy looks around the table in disbelieve. "Models?"

"No, the boys are not going," giggles Ashley. "Only you and I. Don't you think we can pull off the look?"

Andy counts to five and asks, "How tall are you?"

"In inches or centimeters?" the girl replies brightly.

Andy counts some more. "In anything."

"Oh, I'm about five one. And a half. I think. And in centimeters," Ashley looks uncertain, "um, I am not sure. Why?"

Andy thinks that counting isn't helping.

"Honey, I think what Andy means," Jake helpfully intervenes, "is that petite models are very rare--."

Ashley furs her brows. "So?" Everyone around the table watches her for several long moments until she looks at Andy and says, "Oh--."

…

…

…

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	6. Chapter 6

**6.**

* * *

_"You ever get the feeling that somebody doesn't like you?"_

James Bond, "The Spy Who Loved Me"

* * *

The party is a complete bore. Not that dancing would improve it, Andy thinks with some degree of spite, as she wanders among the groups of people, who talk about things she either knows nothing about, or cares very little about, or both. Or they speak French.

Andy's arrived early to make sure that she is here when Miranda comes, and now has nothing to do but wait and compile an opening line in her head. The latter isn't going all that well. In fact, it's not going anywhere beyond "Hello, Miranda, please, don't call security." At last Andy gives up and thinks that while there is still a couple of minutes left before Miranda is due to put in an appearance, may be she should find a suitable place for a stake-out.

She is about to set off on her endeavor, when she realizes what a ridiculous idea that is. Shit. Is stupidity contagious? Andy is ready to smack herself, when another realization hits her - she has stopped in the middle of the room, and is standing here, all alone, scowling at an imaginary figure of--.

Andy grabs a glass of wine from a passing waiter and casually strolls toward a coach in the corner, as if she's been planning to sit there all along. Has anyone noticed? Does anyone pay attention? She feels some quizzical glances on her, but, thankfully, nothing too dangerous. Still, shit.

The couch is hard and uncomfortable. Nevertheless, Andy instantaneously begins to appreciate the opportunity for rest. Apparently, these last two hectic days and almost sleepless nights, aggravated by the jet lag and the company she is forced to keep, have seriously worn her out.

Trouble is, though, Andy suddenly has to struggle to remain upright. Her lids grow heavy, and her body, left in peace, seems to be hell bend on sprawling as horizontally as possible.

When her shoulder reclines so much that it is about to rest on someone's tuxedo covered lap, Andy jumps up and flees the deceiving inhospitality of the couch. Shit, she hasn't been this exhausted for ages. Probably, since college. No, the _Runway_ days. Andy sucks in a breath and quickly looks around. No, not yet.

She exhales and takes a sip of wine, which has miraculously survived the trip to the couch. And almost spits it out. How many those fucking martinis did she really have on Thursday?! Shit! Swallowing against the gag reflex, Andy frantically looks around for a waiter.

When she locates one a moment later, she practically throws the glass on his tray. "Existe-t-il quelque chose de mal?" someone asks. "Êtes-vous bien?" Andy has no idea what that means, but it can't be good. People have _noticed_---.

Her heart in her throat, Andy mumbles something and quickly retreats to the safety of the restroom. There she waits, frozen, for several long moments before letting out a breath – no one follows her. God---. With slightly shaking hand Andy splashes some water on her face and looks at her reflection in the mirror.

She's got to get a grip. She is doing fine. Andy checks her make-up. She is. She's here by herself. A quick glance around. Right. All by herself. She's fooled the security. Andy grimaces, but applies a fresh coat of lipstick. She is fine. Tired, but fine. Everything is fine.

Why then is she acting like an idiot? She throws the lipstick in the purse. And Miranda isn't even here yet! Andy growls and splashes some more water on her face. God, she really hates Miranda Priestly…

When she leaves the restroom, Andy stations at a tall window. Its windowsill is too high to perch on, but low enough to casually lean on. Which Andy does. Casually. That is what she hopes it looks like for anyone, who cares to look. Sort of I-need-a-bit-of-a-break-I've-shmoozed-so-hard deal. Then, she deeply inhales and exhales. So--

"--no wonder that rag, which dares to call itself a newspaper, remains what it is – a rag." Miranda? "If they insist on sending--" Miranda?! Andy opens her eyes to-- "reporters, who are not only ignorant on the subject matter, but display such a complete indifference--"

"Miranda--" Of course, Andy doesn't mean to sound so pathetic and cringes even before Miranda's face twists in a sneer.

"--to it, there is very little hope for the future of the _Mirror_."

"Miranda, it's not--" Shit! Out of all the things she could've done, waiting for her former boss, dozing off is probably one of the worst.

Andy swallows hard, frantically hunting for the right words to say, but her mind draws blank under the cold stare of blue eyes. Blue? Miranda's eyes are blue? she wonders inconsequentially.

Then the stare shifts. Andy sucks in a breath, but forgets to exhale, as the woman gives her a slow, deliberate once-over. "Have you even mentioned to your superiors," Miranda's eyes pause at the belt, and at once Andy thinks that the buckle is too big, and it doesn't go with the blouse, and she should've… "that your responsibility at _Runway_ have never gone beyond fetching and filing?" Miranda's stare reaches Andy's shoes and lingers there.

Trying not to shift her feet, Andy begins to sweat. "Miranda, but--I need--there is something--"

"Miranda, I am sorry--" The tall, harassed looking girl, the one from La Tremoille, approaches them. "You asked me to let you know right away, when Pier calls--"

The woman, ignoring both girls' words, stabs Andy with her cold stare one more time and utters softly, "That's all." Then, she turns and walks away. Her assistant almost looses her balance in god-knows-how-many inches heels, spinning around and rushing after her. Normally, Andy would sympathize with the girl, but just now she is too busy swearing under her breath and attempting to simultaneously decide who she is going to kill first – Miranda, Doug, Ashley, or herself – and, beside a murder, what to do next.

She makes several steps to follow Miranda, but the woman is already surrounded by people, and most likely has forgotten all about her former second assistant.

Shit!

And yet, as irritated as Andy is then, by the end of the party she is positively fuming. And drunk.

Miranda remains elusive. The woman is constantly on the move, there is always someone with her, and she completely ignores Andy's feeble attempts to attract her attention. In fact, as she tags at a distance after Miranda, who glides around the party with her usual ease and elegance, Andy has a suspicion that Miranda mocks her. Then again, would this woman give her a second thought? Thanks god, at least she doesn't call the security.

An hour into the party a very handsome middle-aged guy joins Miranda, putting his hand possessively on the woman's shoulder. The fiancé, Andy guesses, and shortly adds another person to the list of her potential murder victims. The way he practically attaches himself to Miranda makes it completely impossible for Andy to approach the woman. And besides, the man is just too--suave, too well-dressed, too attractive, too--everything. Has Miranda, in her quest for perfection, gone too far? Can't she see - he is a phony?! But the woman is all smiles, and Andy decides that her former boss' relationships frankly are none of her business.

Still, a man shouldn't be this clingy!!! Would it kill him to step out for a bathroom break or something?!

Frustrated Andy follows the pair for a while longer, until they leave the party altogether. Then she decides that she doesn't care if she pukes all over someone's ridiculously-expensive designer outfit. She needs a drink. Or two. Or three.

If by midnight she were to retain any ability to reason, Andy would be very surprise to find out that she makes it back to Ashley's apartment. She then manages to dismiss all the questions and exclamation without too much swearing and passes out next to her bed.

This night Andy dreams of Miranda. She chases the woman through the streets of Paris, but every time she catches up with her, Miranda sneers at Andy's yellow scarf and says, "That's all." Andy wants to explain that she does have other scarves, and as soon as she is back in New York, she can show them to Miranda. But before she opens her mouth, the woman marches away, leaving Andy to grit her teeth in frustration.

Andy wakes up in absolutely atrocious mood, with a sore back, a killer headache, a taste of sand in her mouth, and two hours too late to make it to Miranda's breakfast.

A trip to the bathroom for some staring into the toilet bowl brings no relief. Neither do two cups of strong coffee and a handful of local headache pills. And the pitiful looks from her teammates make everything even worse.

God, she really, really hates Miranda Priestly.

In fact, as she slowly and painfully pulls and puts herself together for the woman's pre-luncheon reception, Andy seriously considers if she should start her conversation with Miranda with "You, bitch." Of course, if she is ever going to have that fucking conversation…

At least she is going alone.

Not that it helps much, thought. The frustration and anger of last night quickly return in full force, because, just like yesterday, Andy can't find a way to corner Miranda alone, and the woman simply refuses to notice her. No matter how much Andy burns Miranda's back with a stare, she never turns, and when she is facing Andy, Miranda seems to look right through her.

"Est-elle pas magnifique?"

Startled, Andy, before she has a chance to think better of it, swirls to see the speaker. The sudden move echoes painfully in her skull. She winces, while the guy, who's spoken to her, continues, "Magnifique, oui?"

"Pardon me?" Unable to flee, Andy can do nothing but respond.

"Oh, oui," the guy smiles and nods at the groupd of people gathered around Miranda. "She is beautiful, yes? Miss Priestly?"

It takes about a second before Andy can literally feel steam coming out of her ears. She scowls, jerks around (fuck the pain that instantaneously pierces her brain) and, huffing and puffing, stomps out of the reception.

…

…

…

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	7. Chapter 7

**7.**

* * *

[the office door moves back, and Bond appears holding a guy at gunpoint]  
_**Zukovsky**__: Can't you say a hello like a normal person? _

"The World Is Not Enough"

* * *

It takes a while before she cools off enough to stop resembling a speeding steam train. Either that or the screeching of the breaks jolts her out of her fury. Dumbfounded, Andy stares at the little car that has jumped and halted right in front of her. Then she realizes that it is she, who has jumped and frozen in front of the car.

The driver rolls the window down and screams at her, waiving his hand. Although, Andy doesn't know any French, she has no trouble understanding what exactly the man says. She mumbles an apology and steps back on the curb. The man screams some more before driving away.

Andy takes a deep breath. Slowly exhales. And swears under her breath. She is an idiot. One ridiculous remark and she is jumping in front of the car.

Idiot.

She probably says it a bit too loud, because an old lady, waiting for the light change next to her, jerks and carefully steps away.

Idiot. Now Andy repeats it inwardly. She's been living in New York for over three years, and should know better than to pay attention to off-handed comments made by total strangers.

Seriously.

And it's too late to get back to the luncheon.

Andy swears and for a brief moment entertains the thought of returning to Ashley's apartment. She quickly dismisses it, though. Thanks, but no, thanks.

So, what's next?

She glances around and spots familiar green letters of Starbucks. Andy frowns, but heads there anyway. She doesn't fancy dealing with one of the local waiters right about now. Then again, she is in Paris, Andy thinks grimly, as she attempts to explain to the indifferent barista what exactly she wants. After trying her best in French, British, and Spanish (she took some in school) accents, she gives up and takes whatever the guy places on the counter in front of her.

When Andy gets to the table, she takes a small sip from her cup and cringes. What the hell? The steaming liquid, peeking from under the foam, provides no answer. Irritated, she stares at the drink, she hasn't exactly ordered, and decides that she is indeed an idiot. What has she expected, trying to get fancy tea? In a coffee house. In Paris. What indeed? As it is her every little step, from the moment she's agreed to come and save Miranda Priestly's ass, has been a disaster. The whole fucking trip!

Andy pushes the cup away, and the milky liquid sloshes and splatters on the table and on her fingers. It's burning hot. She swears and snatches her hand away. Great! Just great!

And it's all because of Miranda! Anything, the damn woman touches, turns foul. Anything! Andy blows on her reddened fingers, and her eye catches the offending yellow of her scarf. Well, perhaps, Ashley is…an occurrence in her own rights. A bonus of a sort. Still, (Andy gives her cup a glare) abandoning Miranda two years ago was a right thing to do, because the woman is simply a menace.

That settled, Andy pulls out a notebook, which has gotten a lot of wear and tear in the last couple of days. Her jaw clenched, she leafs through pages until she reaches the last page, the Sunday afternoon one, and quickly reads the few short lines there.

Then she reads them again.

And again.

Then she slams the notebook shut. She is fucked, Andy thinks with unexpected calm. Truly and completely fucked. There is no lunches, no receptions, no shows, and no meetings. It's only Miranda in her hotel room, getting ready for the big dinner. And Andy, trying to get into the said room.

For a while Andy gropes for ideas, but nothing comes to mind. Nothing useful that is. She does think of a few rather creative things she will need to say to Miranda. And Doug. And the rest of them. Pity, it'll have to wait.

Out of the bag she fishes a cell phone, Ashley has given her for the duration, and jams the power button on. There are a few dozen missed calls and unread text messages, which Andy ignores. Instead, she dials a number and, as soon as she hears "hello" on the other end of the line, fires up, "Whatever you do in the next two hours, do not come close to La Tremoille."

"Andy?" Doug checks, surprised.

"Not within walking distance!"

"Andy, is it you?" Doug clarifies, and that gets her really going.

"No, Doug, it's Juicy fucking Couture, looking for fashion people," she snaps and instantly regrets it. I am nicer than that, Andy makes an attempt to reassure herself.

However, her supposed niceness doesn't really come through, as she interrupts Doug's forced chuckle with a hissed, "I mean it, Doug. Not within walking, driving, or flying distance."

"But I thought…"

Right now, she absolutely doesn't care what Doug thinks, and she cuts him off with a quick "Do you want me to talk to Miranda or not?"

"Yes, of course, but…" The poor guy starts, but it's definitely not his day, because he doesn't get to finish this time either. As Doug stumbles, Andy can hear bits of argument on the other end of the line, then some scrambling, and, finally, Ashley's cheery voice comes through, "Andy, you don't mean it, do you?"

If Andy feels a small degree of compassion for Doug – old friend and all, there is nothing that stops her from cursing Ashley to the next Sunday and back. Which she does, surprised of how well she can express herself in such a foul language. The two-day backlog of annoyance and frustration easily fills the few short sentences, which Andy spews over the phone. At the end she takes a deep breath and says very politely, "And now let me talk to Doug. Please."

There is a strange choking sound on the other end of the line, which for some reason makes Andy think of pom-poms stuck in Ashley's throat. Then Doug's voice comes shakily through the phone, "Andy?"

The conversation that follows is very short, but as Andy hangs up, she is pretty sure that she's gotten her point across. She does feel a twitch of remorse over the way she's handled Doug, but quickly reminds herself that it is all Miranda's fault. As soon as this crazy "saving" business is over, she'll straighten everything out, and they all will be friends again.

Maybe, not right away.

And not all of them…

Andy throws the phone in her bag and glares one more time at her cup. Damn to hell the day she first met the damn woman and didn't run away screaming.

On her way to La Tremoille, Andy makes the last attempt to come up with at least one practical way of approaching Miranda. Yet, the miracle doesn't happen, and, as she walks into the hotel's lobby, she has no clue what she is going to do. Nevertheless, she bravely approaches the front desk.

The clerk, thankfully not the one that has thrown her "team" and her out of the hotel just yesterday, looks at Andy with a fair degree of superiority. "Bon jour. Comment puis-je être utile?" he utters with a strained smile.

Andy barely manages not to "huh?" Instead, she blurts out, "Miranda Priestly…"

The clerk's smile gets slightly more strained, and, as his gaze slowly moves from Andy's face to her yellow scarf, down to her jacket, which is not as expensive as Andy wishes it to be at the moment, the air of superiority becomes almost palpable.

And then suddenly it's all gone – the strained smile, the superiority. The clerk's eyes snap back to Andy's face. "Ms. Priestly," he mumbles, "of course." He swallows audibly before finishing, "Ms. Priestly, room 306."

Miraculously, for the second time Andy manages not to "huh?" She has no idea what's just happened, but isn't about to complain. She nods to the clerk, as if she's never had expected anything, but efficient help from him, and heads to the elevator. Quickly.

Once inside, she juggles a tray with a coffee cup to press the button, and when the elevator doors chime closed, lets out a breath she apparently has been holding. Then she looks at the tray in her hand. Starbucks coffee? What the… The elevator delivers her to the third floor, as she finishes the question. …fuck? Andy stumbles out. And how…? And why are there no fucking garbage cans around when you need one?

It's all Miranda's fault, once again Andy reminds herself, and the sooner she deals with the damn woman, the sooner… Andy swears under her breath, because she is standing in front of the door with a golden number 306. Still holding the stupid coffee tray. Having prepared no opening lines except for "You, bitch," which will definitely not endure her to Miranda. If the damn woman doesn't slam the door in her face first. And doesn't call security. And…

And then the door opens. The sight of Miranda Priestly, not glaring, but rather smirking at her, throws Andy's thought process in complete disarray. For the third time in about as many minutes, she is about to "huh?"

"So, it is you," Miranda says in almost friendly manner. "Your year at _Runway_ wasn't entirely wasted then, was it?"

Andy doesn't say "huh" this time either. She does not. She keeps her mouth shut tight. But the stupid word is probably written all over her face, because Miranda's smirk widens.

"Your coffee trick, Andrea, sufficiently terrified the front desk," she explains. Flabbergasted, Andy stares at Miranda, who continues patiently, "They just called me to ask if there was a problem with the coffee they brought me half an hour ago."

Andy glances at the Starbucks tray in her hand.

Oh. Wow.

That explains it…

Nothing, however, can explain, Andy thinks as she looks back at the woman, this Miranda - who is yet to sneer, or question Andy's intelligence. Or mention the offending yellow scarf.

"Unfortunately," Miranda meanwhile proceeds, "I do not give interviews. You should know that, Andrea."

Andy nods, watching dumbly the door with a golden 306 begins to close. "Wait!" she finally exclaims, "I'm not here for an interview!"

"A pass to a show? A press conference invitation? You wouldn't ask me for those, would you?" Miranda pauses only to give Andy a smug once over. "Oh, and Andrea, I told the front desk that I did not know who you were."

Right at that moment Andy hears the elevator doors chime at the end of the hallway. Oh, shit, she thinks without turning to see who is coming. As she listens to the sound of approaching heavy steps, her imagination draws a vivid picture of her being dragged out of La Tremoille. And then there is probably going to be a photograph in Page Six, depicting just that, with a caption "The Queen of the Fashion Publishing is Being Stalked by an Unfashionable Former Assistant."

In an act of desperation Andy lurches toward the half-closed door. Surprised, Miranda steps aside. As she does, she lets go of the door, which hits Andy's hand, sending the coffee cup tumbling out of the tray. Undeterred, Andy pushes forward. Only when she is well inside the woman's room, she turns to Miranda and fires up before the woman has a chance to kill her, "I need to warn you about…" However, Miranda isn't looking at her, but down. There, lying on the floor, is the coffee cup, its lid aside, the dark liquid has spilled out and is spreading on the fancy carpet in an unseemly, incongruous stain. Right in front of Miranda's Prada pumps.

But even more unseemly and incongruous are the several large splashes of coffee on the light suede of the said pumps. Andy gulps, "…about Irv Kravitz and…"

Miranda slowly lifts her head, training her narrowed eyes on Andy.

Suddenly, it doesn't matter if it is all the woman's fault. "…Anna Wintour," Andy finishes, just as a knock on the door announces the arrival of hotel security.

Miranda hesitates for a brief moment (Page Six, Page Six, beats Andy's heart), before sending them off with two quick words. Then she turns her attention back to Andy, "So, Irv and Anna. I am listening."

Andy blinks. This is it? That's all it takes? Now Andy truly feels like an idiot.

…

…

…

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.

Mina Murrey, if you still out there, thanks for your help with French (I hope I got it right now)


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 2**

**8.**

* * *

_**Honey Rider**__: Looking for shells?  
__**James Bond**__: No. I'm just looking._

"Dr. No"

* * *

Doug blames himself. Lily blames Miranda. And Andy is tired of telling them that no one is to blame. Because there is nothing wrong with her.

She is fine.

Absolutely fine.

So…

Lily covers Andy's hand with hers and says, "You're doing it again."

Andy bristles and opens her mouth to retort. She is just watching TV.

Isn't she?

She focuses her vision. Yes, she is. The one above bartender's head. So what if it's a car insurance commercial? She might buy a car one day… Suddenly, Andy realizes that her mouth is still open and shuts it with a snap.

Lily looks at her with an uncalled-for sadness in her eyes. Andy grinds her teeth and glowers at the martini. Unperturbed, the lemon gunk slowly floats on the top of the drink. Andy huffs, takes a sip, and struggles to swallow.

The fact that she refuses to hang on to every word her friends utter, is not an excuse to treat her as an invalid. Why wouldn't they leave her be? How long are they going to pester her about that stupid Paris trip? It's been almost a month…

Three and a half weeks…

Twenty five days…

Andy pushes the glass away. She is fine, she tells herself firmly. Even if her friends don't believe her, she is.

Absolutely.

Fine.

"Fine," Andy states.

"Great!" Doug flashes a smile at her and whips up the BlackBerry.

Surprised, Andy watches him type. Then, she looks at Lily – what? As her friend nods in approval, Andy begins to suspect that she's missed something. Not that she is about to ask what exactly she has missed. A girl can handle only so much patronizing a night…

Then again, a week later Andy decides that as much as she dislikes patronizing, she simply abhors the outright meddling. And so sitting in some posh restaurant with a fitting name "Posh," across the table from a what's-his-name-Doug's-new-colleague, she pokes at her salad and contemplates who she is going to murder first – Lily or Doug. Where do they get off setting her up on a blind date? Has Doug spent a bit too much time with Ashley? And what's Lily's excuse?

"Is everything alright?" the what's-his-name asks. Andy fakes a smile, loosens her grip on a fork, and says, "Yes, of course. So, you were saying…" Thankfully it works, and moments later she is free to return to her unpleasant thoughts.

Of course, she has to admit, while dissecting a piece of tomato, none of this would've happened if lately she wouldn't tune out her friends so much.

Or if, when the what's-his-name called to ask her for drinks, she'd manage to say 'not interested, thanks.' As soon as he introduced himself. Definitely before he hung up. 'Um-ming' through the five minutes' conversation, trying to figure out who the hell he was, was definitely not a way to go.

Tomato as good as pulverized, Andy concentrates on lettuce. The very least, she decides, she should've put her foot down, when he's suggested they'd get a bite to eat first. And this fucking, god-knows-how-many-stars restaurant is BYO. Which they haven't.

A couple of beers could've made an improvement for this guy…

"If you don't like your salad, we can send it back," the what's-his-name suggests carefully. Andy glances at him, then at her plate. Oh, shit - whatever is there at the moment bears no resemblance to the salad she's been served. Chewed up and spit out assortment of vegetables, perhaps? Fresh-made baby food?

"Andy?"

Oh right. "No, it's okay. I'm not all that hungry."

"Listen, why don't I get a check," the guy smiles, glancing at her annihilated salad, "and we go find us a karaoke bar. I think you need a good laugh and a cold drink."

He is really not that bad, this what's-his-name, Andy thinks. Reasonably good-looking. Smart.

It's just…

Her phone chirps. Andy gladly excuses herself – "the newspaper never sleeps," - and walks out.

"Hello?" she doesn't recognize the number, but who cares. "Hello?"

"Andrea."

The phone, suddenly a slippery little shit, jumps out of Andy's fingers, and she grabs for it in the air for a few moments until it falls to the ground. She swears, picks it up, and, holding it with both hands now, chokes out, "Mm-miranda?"

"I need two lattes. Decaf."

What? Andy is too shocked to say it out loud. An ever-useful "um" comes out instead.

"My office. Now." There is a short pause, then, "That's all," and the line goes dead.

Dumbfounded Andy looks at her phone – come again?

Hello? How are you? Are you busy at the moment? The desire to scream is overwhelming.

Twenty minutes later Andy marches through the empty, darkened offices of the _Runway. _The scarceness of lights does not concern her – she knows exactly where she is going. And the absence of toiling away employees only makes her march more determined – so, some people do get to enjoy their Friday nights…

The familiar glass door is open, and Andy stomps inside, the coffee tray shaking dangerously in her hand.

"I don't work for you anymore," she starts as soon as she slams the tray on the desk. Unfortunately, the coffee remains safely in the cups. Digging the cups out of their nests, Andy continues, "In fact, I haven't work for you for over two years." She drops the empty tray into a basket with as much noise as she could generate. "In fact, you have two assistants, who…"

Miranda, who hasn't yet glanced in Andy's direction, too engrossed in studying the Book, raises a hand to silence her.

Andy doesn't bother with the rest of the sentence. She huffs, pivots on her heels, and with an angry determination heads out.

"Andrea."

What? The latte isn't hot enough? You don't want it anymore? You need the moon to go with it? Andy spins around. "Wha-"

The sight of Miranda, looking at her over the rim of her reading glasses, momentarily cools Andy's indignation. She swallows the end of the "what" and fights off another "um." "I don't work for you anymore," she manages at last.

Miranda sighs, takes her glasses off, and points at the chair across the desk.

"I don't work-" Andy starts automatically.

Miranda regards her silently, and Andy reconsiders. "I was on a date," she tries this time.

In response Miranda arches an eyebrow.

Andy frowns - well, there is that.

"Help yourself," Miranda points at one of the cups. "I'll be with you shortly." Before Andy gets to answer, the woman turns back to the Book.

Oh well.

Just great!

If Andy has ever known anyone, who could provoke, insult, and shock her so thoroughly and so quickly… And in so few words…

She grabs the latte and sits down.

'Only because you ask so nicely,' is on the tip of Andy's tongue, before she clamps her mouth shut. She comforts herself with a small huff and a glare, directed straight at Miranda's head.

…

…

…

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.


	9. Chapter 9

**9.**

* * *

**Max Zorin:** [_laughs_] Ha ha, you amuse me, Mr. Bond.  
**James Bond:** It's not mutual.

"A View to a Kill"

* * *

Three sips of latte later Andy finally has to consent to the fact that her glare is absurdly ineffective in drilling holes in Miranda's head. Or inflicting any kind of damage for that matter.

Andy also has to consent to the fact that her anger isn't completely justified. The outrageous summoning notwithstanding, she seems to achieve what she has set to achieve with the trip to Paris. Or at least, what Doug thought she should achieve. Namely, a contact with Miranda. And, as skeptical as Andy is about the merit of it all, she can't deny the value of 'you never know' possibilities of having a connection with the all-powerful _Runway_ editor.

It's just...

Well, it's just... she has hoped to never see Miranda again. Ever.

There. She has finally admitted it.

After almost a month...

Three and a half weeks...

Twenty five days...

Andy doesn't want the latte anymore, but takes another sip nevertheless. She shouldn't have come, she thinks. She could've ignored Miranda's request and...

And what? Find herself unemployed and unemployable by tomorrow? Who would dare to say 'fuck you' to Miranda Priestly twice in as many years? Andy dodged the bullet last time around, and she doesn't fell like testing her luck again.

She shots one more glare at Miranda's head. What could the woman possibly want with her anyway?

The woman in question, meanwhile, closes the Book, takes off her reading glasses, and looks at Andy. "I must apologize," she begins, moving the Book aside, "for not arranging this meeting in advance, but the opportunity has presented itself," Miranda waves her hand in a vague circle, "and I thought it would be impractical not to take advantage of it."

Andy isn't clear on what opportunity Miranda is talking about. Somewhere on the back of her mind she knows it would be a good idea to try and guess it. But she doesn't, too busy getting over the shock of learning that there is a word 'apologize' in this woman's vocabulary. And she knows how to use it.

After some hesitation Andy offers a very wary "It's all right."

Miranda nods, as if she actually has wanted the apology to be accepted, and continues, "I asked you to stop by, because I wanted to talk to you."

"Really?" almost comes out of Andy's mouth, but she bites her lip instead. This can't be good. It can not... What has Doug dragged her into? And why no one has stopped him? It is decided, Andy thinks with sudden irritation, when she comes out of here... if she comes out of here in one piece, she is getting herself some new friends.

Definitely.

"Andrea." Pronounced softly by Miranda, her own name sounds unpleasant to Andy. Right away she thinks of lukewarm coffees, and forgetting someone's name, and letting a call go to the voice mail- God, now she is sweating! And for what? She doesn't even work for this psycho any more. Does she really have to sit here and listen to... whatever?

Leaving now might not even look like a "fuck you," only as a polite "It was nice to see you, but I do need to go."

Alas, Andy realizes, as she makes a move to get up, the door is behind her, and her former boss watches her intently. There is no way in the world she is turning her back to the woman – unlike her own, Miranda's glares can be deadly.

Shit.

"Andrea," Miranda repeats, as Andy braces for the worst, "I wanted to let you know that I am very well aware of my debt to you, and I intend to repay it fully."

At first Andy is puzzled as to why she doesn't hear a smacking sound. She knows her jaw's just hit the floor. Then, to her complete horror, "Huh?" comes out of her slacked mouth.

"Regardless of some people's opinion of me," Miranda reacts haughtily, "I do honor my obligations. You might have noticed two years ago, after your appalling display of immaturity, irresponsibility, and sheer stupidity, you still managed to get a job. Didn't you?"

Andy blinks. "Um...yes?"

"If only you could've reined in your provincial impulses for a bit longer," Miranda gets up and walks to the window, "I would've had doors open for you anywhere. Anywhere." Miranda curls her lip in disgust. "Not just in that excuse for a newspaper you work for."

Andy considers that. Then, almost calmly, she says, "Aha," puts the cup down, sighs, and pinches her arm.

Ouch!

The squeak earns her a quick look and a raised eyebrow.

Oh... Wow... It is really happening...

"Is there something you wanted to say?" Miranda inquires.

Shit? Andy thinks instantaneously, but manages "uh, no..."

"Very well." Miranda nods and returns to the desk. "Why don't you give me a couple of titles to start with." She points at a pen and a pad. "I'd guess _The New York Times_, _The New Yorker_, _The Observer..._ Where else would you like to go?"

Andy stares at her, then at the pad she apparently has being jotting in, and frowns – something is not right. Actually, a lot of thing are, but for one - "Miranda, I have a job... I work for _The Mirror..._"

That earns her another raised eyebrow. "I distinctly remember mentioning my familiarity with the fact. Only a moment ago."

Right. Andy shakes her head and looks at the pad one more time. Wow, this is... Just wow. Can she do it? Andy glances at Miranda. Idiot, of course she can! She is Miranda fucking Priestly!

So, this is it. All Andy has to say is—"No, um, I don't need... I am actually doing," she swallows. Shit, she is not a very good liar, "really well... I am working on this piece..."

"Oh, yes," Miranda interrupts her bubbling, "do go on. I was hoping to hear about the dazzling career path that lays ahead of you at _The Mirror_."

Andy's glare collides with Miranda's sneer and crumbles. The woman knows! Of course, she does. Probably, has spent the last two years gloating. Shit!

Meanwhile, Miranda sits down back at the desk. She takes the pad, tears off the top page, and pushes it toward Andy. "Think about it."

"Miranda, thank you, but I don't," Andy pauses to muster the conviction she isn't exactly feeling, "need anything. I mean, your help. I believe that I can..." Miranda's lips curl into a very obvious smirk, challenging her to finish. Andy knows, the woman knows, hell, the whole world knows that a million girls would kill for Miranda's offer. And yet, here she is, Andy the idiot Sachs, about to embarrass herself with "the hard work and dedication" speech.

So, she shuts up and glares at her hands.

Miranda gives her a moment or two, before continuing, as if Andy hasn't spoken, "Get in touch with me, when you made your choice." She opens the Book and puts back on her reading glasses. "Don't dawdle. That's all."

Outside the Elias-Clark building Andy rips the page from Miranda's pad into tiny pieces, crumples them into a tight wad, swears, and throws the wad in the closest garbage can.

Doug calls her the next morning, "So?"

"Don't ask." Andy hasn't gotten much sleep, and is not in a chatty mood.

"Really? That bad?" Doug persists.

"Worse."

"Shit, Andy, I'm sorry."

"Of course, as much as I blame you, I blame myself for agreeing to it," she says more to herself than to Doug.

"Shit, Andy, I'm sorry," Doug repeats. "It seemed such a good idea. Even Lily thought so..."

"I knew it wouldn't end well," Andy ignores him. "In the last two years I've completely forgotten how utter humiliation feels like."

"Um, Andy? What are you... Nate would never... Did he?"

"Nate? What are _you_ talking about?" Has she missed something again?

"Andy, are you alright?" Doug asks carefully. "Do you want me to come over? Bring you some chicken soup or something?"

"Fuck you, Doug!" Andy squeals. "Fuck your soup and your Miranda!"

"Miranda? Miranda who? Priestly? What does she have to do with Jeremy?"

Andy pauses. "Jeremy who?" Shit, she _has_ missed something.

Doug is silent for longer than such a simple question calls for. Then he says slowly, "Jeremy, you had a date with last night and are complaining about it."

Thankfully, Andy manages not to blurt out "what date" right away. It takes some time, but eventually it clicks -"Posh," salad, Doug's co-worker. His name was Jeremy.

Andy recaps the date very quickly. Not that she can recall much of it anyway. But Doug doesn't mind, suddenly more interested in why Miranda's name has come up. So, Andy tells him about the summons and the offer.

"Andy, oh my god, that's great!" Jeremy and the failed matchmaking attempt already forgotten, Doug sounds absolutely thrilled. Andy can imagine him jumping up and down. "We did it! Holy crap, we did!"

"Doug," Andy tries to interject softly.

"The opportunities! Who would've thought? The Ice Queen! You can get anything, Andy, anything!" Now, Andy is positive that he is jumping up and down. Either that or he has borrowed a jovial elephant from a zoo.

No, wait, that is not possible, elephants can't jump.

Doug then.

Andy waits. A couple of minutes later she finally gets through. "Doug, I told her no, thanks."

"You can ask for... Wait, you did what?"

"I told her," she sighs, "no, thanks, I don't need her help."

"You told Miranda Priestly... Andy, you are kidding me, right?"

For a moment she wishes she were.

"Tell me, it's a joke," Doug begs. "Andy?" He waits. And wait. And waits. "Shit, Andy, you are..."

She has a good inkling of what he is about to say. But Doug doesn't say it. Instead, he swears again and tells her to cancel all her plans for the day. "I'm coming over with the biggest bottle of tequila. You better go and get some chips."

"Tequila? It's eleven in the morning, Doug."

"Yea, I hoped the chicken soup would suffice, but we are dealing with a complete mental case here."

Andy knows he has a point.

...

...

...

**A/N** Thank you for reading and reviewing.


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